


Hunting

by Lancre_witch



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Legacy of Kain
Genre: Death, Gen, Warning: contains blood, and mentions of torture, nothing graphic but you should be aware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 05:12:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12381600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lancre_witch/pseuds/Lancre_witch
Summary: The Queen had hoped for an easy day's hunting on this strange world. She would be disappointed.





	Hunting

The Queen sat upon her throne, surrounded by her court of dreams. She was searching for a world without iron, a world without witches.

Her mind drifted on, through the dreams of the multiverse…

Now, _this_ one was different, a world fractured almost to the point of destruction, a great parasite wrapped around its timelines. There was iron, true, but even so such a world would be easy pickings. Surely they would welcome her as a goddess, given the alternatives. She smiled.

*

Vorador was at work in his forge, as he often was these nights, if not in the company of his brides. The pounding of his hammer upon steel almost drowned out the footsteps of the young one hurrying down the passage towards him. They did not pause, but started a breathless explanation the moment they came through the door, hoping their words would forestall the chastisement which Vorador was already opening his mouth to deliver.

“Sire, in the- in the woods, they took Ketta. Not Sarafan, not human… I don’t, please.” The words were mixed with sobs and almost incoherent.

“Calm yourself, childe. I shall take matters into hand.”

When the fledgling left, worried but hopeful, Vorador began his search. A flock of ravens descended upon the forest, searching out Ketta’s mysterious attackers.

He found them by a copse of rowan trees, a dozen riders on brown and black steeds, larger than any Nosgoth breed. When the black cloud of feathers descended from the sky, running together to reveal the kneeling vampire, they spurred their horses into the clearing.

By rights, he should have been able to hunt them down easily. Even at full gallop a horse is no match for a vampire’s lupine form. By rights, the ground between the trees should not have warped and stretched and become a vast snowy plane with the riders and Ketta already far ahead.

The snow was deep and stung his legs and paws, but he kept pace with the hunting party, and as the horses tired he began to gain ground. His ears were sharper in this form, but he could not make out the words of their conversation.

The riders stopped and turned. At any other time he would have wondered at that, but bloodlust was fuelling him, drowning coherent thought. He saw one draw a bow, felt the sharp pain in his flank, and the minds of the elves enveloped him.

_What was he thinking, trying to chase them down, some silly idea of revenge? What could he hope to achieve? What humans were to him, all creatures were to the elves; an afternoon’s sport; a pet, perhaps, but never anything more. He was nothing, best to let his mind drift away. Better for them to control him than himself. He didn’t deserve to. He didn’t deserve anything…_

_No._ Vorador felt his thoughts knot in anger. He was no stranger to torture, but to turn the mind against itself… He had not felt like this since the day Janos died; the anger, the guilt. It was the feeling which had propelled him into his enemy’s stronghold and allowed him to slaughter the world’s most powerful mages like sheep.

Golden eyes flew open in a rage. The vicious thoughts had lost their hold on him, but had been  replaced with ropes. The huntsmen were on either side of him, stone knives drawn, and he did not need to look to know there were more behind him. It was the woman on the throne before him who held his attention. Blood red dress and stars in her raven hair, she looked at him like a cat who has just caught a particularly resilient mouse.

“Hmm, I think I shall keep this one,” she mused. “Lankin, you may continue your sport with the other.”

It was then that he realised that the copper scent of blood was not his own, but Ketta’s. His childe was right; these were not Sarafan. The Sarafan would simply have killed her. A vampire could survive much and they had tested the limits of her endurance.

_“You take me for one of the cattle?”_ Vorador asked in her mind. _“Allow me to enlighten you, madam, as to who are the hunters in these parts.”_

He leapt.

The elves had scattered after their queen had fallen. Blood stained the snow blue, save for the one patch which was crimson; the place where Ketta lay. He looked at her body with an expert’s eye. Not yet dead, but there was nothing left in life for her.

“Sleep, childe,” he whispered and gave her the only help he could.

*

Vorador returned, but not in victory, carrying his daughter’s body in his arms. Cool air rose to meet him as he descended into the crypt. A bed of stone for her final rest and a score of candles to light her on her way. “Goodnight Ketta.”


End file.
